Blade without Edge/Chapter Two
Chapter Two Elusive Clarity Several days had passed since Wakiya’s death, although those who had known her were still numb and silent with grief. They had buried her cremated remains in the district of her birth: an old tradition and one rarely upheld in the modern era, but Takashi had insisted that she was provided with full honors. It was the least he could do. He had not seen Kishō since that day. Part of him wanted to console his fellow Shinigami, but bitter guilt still plagued his mind. His anger had mellowed somewhat, and his wrath no longer welled up inside him to choke out his thoughts and blind him to those around him, but still he could not find it in his heart to forgive Kishō. Nor could he forgive himself. Because, more than anything else, he was angry at himself. He was a lieutenant in the Gotei 13. He had a responsibility to his subordinates: a duty he had failed to uphold. That he had allowed someone he was obligated to protect to be harmed —to die— deeply impacted him, striking at his core. Days had passed, and still he could not shake his morose state of being. He did not speak to Kohaku beyond what was necessary, instead wrestling with his emotions in solitude. Their connection became clouded, but he did not realize that he had distanced himself from her until, one day while training, he repeatedly failed to execute one of his kata correctly. He sought out his Zanpakutō in frustration, but she did not comfort him. Instead she confronted him: Were you that attached to Wakiya? Kohaku asked. You had only interacted with her a handful of times. I know... he was hesitant to respond, sensing that the spirit of his sword was about to probe deeper into his consciousness. You are not one to be so phased by death, Takashi. I do not need to remind you of your past... what you have seen. Kohaku, I failed. And who is there to blame but yourself? You cannot undo what has been done. You can only prepare for the future. Do you understand? If you had more personally invested yourself in the training of your subordinates, perhaps Wakiya’s death could have been averted. Particularly, she added, Hōsōshi. But Takashi did not want to think about Kishō. He found, however, that his mind kept drifting back to the Shinigami, and that he could not help but think of Kishō, which served to irritate him to no end. One thing he could not understand was how he had managed to remain unseated despite his considerable level of skill as a Shinigami. Kishō’s prowess in kidō alone placed him at a higher rank than Miyazuki, a tenth seat, and possibly rivalled his own level in the art. Takashi wondered why he had not received an immediate promotion upon transferring to the Sixth Division. Perhaps he would look into that. More troubling, however, was the inexplicable strength he had displayed in Zanjutsu. Kohaku had told him of how he had seemed to block out the voices of his swords. They would cry out to him, she said, but he refused to listen to them. Still, he had killed a fellow Shinigami. Even if she had been weak and wounded, it was not something to simply brush aside. And the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if Kishō was attempting to hide something. Something that was, he felt, darkly incriminating. He decided he would investigate the matter further, and so, late the next afternoon after his other priorities as a lieutenant had been taken care of, Takashi set himself down to the formidable task of tracking Kishō’s records through nine years worth of the division's archives. But here he eventually met with a wall. There had been nothing noteworthy regarding Kishō in the sixth division’s records: apparently he had avoided missions as much as possible and had generally, Takashi assumed, kept to himself. But his search had pointed him towards the ninth division, where Kishō had originally served until the war. In the massive influx of requested transfers during its aftermath, Kishō had slipped in without much notice and, maddeningly, without much information. The obvious course of action was to go through the ninth’s documents, although Takashi had no way to access them beyond what was stored in the Daireishokō, and it took nearly a week to receive permission to browse through those records. Still, it would be completely improprietous to waltz up to the ninth division headquarters and simply ask to rummage through their archives. But perhaps if he could procure a letter stating his purposes from his captain he would be clear to borrow the few relevant documents he needed without undue stress on the part of either division. As his research had taken him late into the night, however, Takashi decided to wait until the next morning’s report to present his request to his captain. Considering his recent failure in the mission, though, he was not entirely sure how Byakuya would react. Takashi awoke early the next day, a slight hardship considering his late night, and quickly compiled the previous day’s report. Kohaku was hungry and peevish, but unfortunately he did not have enough time to take her out hunting. Fish or jerky? He asked her. Both, she snapped, Although you know I hate both. She wolfed them down nonetheless, and Takashi doubted the honesty of her assertion. After he had finished his preparations for the day, he made his way, perhaps even somewhat hesitantly, towards his captain’s office. Everything proceeded as normal; ordinary and impersonal. At last he decided to approach the subject of the recent mission and Kishō, and so he began by asking for the letter of clearance to access the ninth division’s records. Takashi’s captain, Byakuya Kuchiki was seated at his desk, carrying out official paperwork as per usual. His gaze shifted upward and met his lieutenant’s; it was a surprisingly inquisitive, stern stare. “For what purpose?” The captain responded to his lieutenant’s request with curiosity given its sudden appearance. “There is a certain member of our division whose background I wish to investigate. His performance during our most recent mission was less than excellent, and while it could be attributed to his inexperience, he has given indications of possessing a level of skill that far exceeds his rank... yet he currently remains unseated.” he paused, although it was barely noticeable, and then continued, “With your permission, sir, I hope to discover whether or not this pattern of behaviour was also observed during his service in the Ninth Division.” Takashi’s voice conveyed minimal expression, and he hoped desperately that his captain’s suspicions would be quietly alleviated: That it would seem nothing out of the ordinary. Byakuya knew that Takashi was referring to their last mission, which ended in an unexpected fashion. “I see.” He responded in kind, “I shall provide you with the letter.” The Captain took out his writing utensils and began with the writing of the letter. He performed the task swiftly and elegantly, before pushing the paper onto the edge of the desk. “Take it and carry on your business. Don’t tarry around.” Byakuya finished the conversation with that and made his way back into the work he was performing before. Takashi, on the other hand, after accepting the letter with a silent bow of thanks, stood somewhat awkwardly in front of his superior’s desk, unsure of the exact words to frame his next question. “There is, one more thing sir.” he began. If Byakuya was perturbed by the question, he did not show it, instead staring evenly at his lieutenant as Takashi continued. “I would like to request a leave of absence. It has come to my attention that...” he faltered, and fixed his gaze firmly on the floor in front of him before he was able to continue, “That is to say, I have become aware of a few personal shortcomings that I believe, if left unaddressed, will eventually serve as a hazard to the successful completion of my assignments. I would like train and— I thought it would be fitting if Hōsōshi were to accompany me.” For the briefest of moments, although time seemed to stretch into an eternity with the tension that had fallen densely over Takashi’s shoulders, there was only silence. The papers on the desk rustled slightly as an autumn breeze that brushed softly through open window, and Byakuya tapped his small, marble captain’s seal on the table idly. “Very well,” he said, and from the firmness of his voice it seemed as though he had truly given the matter some deliberation. “How long do you plan to be gone?” Takashi wondered if he had imagined his captain’s supposed emotions. His senses were as keen as when he was tracking an animal while hunting, and yet for all his powers of perception he could not read past Byakuya’s perfectly clear, elegant stoicism. It was as if he were staring into a darkened glass: his thoughts and intentions seemingly evident on the surface, but in reality Takashi knew he would never fully understand his captain. “A week at the most, sir.” he answered. “I trust you are aware of the strain this will place on the division.” “Of course. I have considered any hardship my absence might cause and have planned accordingly. As per our usual mode of operation, the third seat will serve as my substitute in the chain of command while I am gone.” It only after he had said this that Takashi realized he was rambling to a certain degree, and stating the obvious to someone already aware of their “usual mode of operation.” Thankfully, Byakuya did not make a point to comment on this. “I see. Was there anything else, Lieutenant Sakuma?” he said instead, and Takashi took it as a sign that he probably wanted to end the discussion. “No sir,” he bowed and added, “Thank you, Captain Kuchiki.” But he had not told Byakuya that he planned to bring Kishō along with him. Partly this was because, considering Kishō’s low rank, Takashi assumed it would be insignificant and unnecessary to mention him at all. However, the main reason why he had failed to bring it up was because, to a certain degree he was afraid his request would then be denied. It was one thing to investigate a member of one’s own division, quite another to then proceed to personally train that same member. It would be improprietous and highly questionable, to say the least. More importantly, if Takashi had mentioned Kishō a second time there was no doubt in his mind that Byakuya would have quickly made the connection and discovered who had truly held the blade that had slain Wakiya. He had, as he had promised, taken great pains to ensure the report of the mission had remained as neutral as possible. But still, a Shinigami of the Sixth Division had died. All factors considered, Takashi could only imagine that his captain had placed the entirety of the blame on his shoulders. Even though it was a perfectly natural conclusion, and even though Takashi had both considered and planned for it, he felt a tiny spark of anger reignite against Kishō. And the more he tried to suppress it, the more it smoldered in the back of his mind, burning quietly in this thoughts. For the next few hours Takashi found himself completely absorbed in his self-imposed task. A mass of books and documents were spread out in a wide radius around where he sat on the floor of the ninth division’s archive, and as time dragged on the only thing that could be heard was the rustling of pages as he poured over the mountain of information. He was still distracted by what his captain had said to him earlier, and he kept returning to ponder over their conversation. Byakuya had done little to help lessen his guilt, instead serving as a painful reminder as to where exactly he had gone wrong. He had the uncomfortable feeling that his captain was disappointed in him— that he had failed Byakuya’s expectations in some way. Perhaps, Takashi thought darkly, he was even being compared to the late Lieutenant Abarai. He shook his head, trying to clear it of such pervasive thoughts. There were more important things to concern himself with, and he could not allow insecurity to cloud his judgement. When it came to Kishō, especially, he needed a sharp mind devoid of emotion. As he delved deeper into his research, he began to discover more and more and with a growing sense of unease that Kishō Hōsōshi was not all that he seemed to be. To begin with, he was apparently the next-in-line successor to the lesser noble Hōsōshi clan, and this incited Takashi’s interest. As a member of a noble house himself, Takashi was keenly aware of the politics and rivalries that such families often became embroiled in, although over the course of his own life he had fortunately managed to remain detached, although by no means unaffected, from most of it. The same could not be said for Kishō, who he assumed had been burdened with the heavy weight of high expectations since the day he was born. Of course it was simply mere speculation, but considering that Kishō had entered the Gotei 13 at the unusually high rank of tenth seat, there had almost undoubtedly been political forces working underhand. That alone would have made his intentions seem rather dubious, but considering his exploits during his tenure in the ninth, Kishō did not seem to be motivated by power at all. In fact, if the manner in which he had conducted himself during his various missions and assignments were taken into account, he seemed to be seeking a means to escape his family’s influence. Perhaps he grew tired of being coddled and so ran from his responsibilities as the clan’s successor? Kohaku prompted after glancing over Takashi’s thoughts and noting his vexation. Takashi considered what she said for several quiet moments before replying: That could be... However, according to this file here on the Hōsōshi, it seems they are not ones who would readily associate themselves with the Gotei 13. Yet Hōsōshi Kishō went against their traditions when he joined the Shin’ō Academy… apparently he is the first of his family to do so in generations. He tapped a stack of papers that contained the records of transferred academy students to reiterate his point. But... Why would he chose to disassociate himself from his own family? he mused. Aren’t the Hōsōshi renowned as guardians in the Seireitei? I don’t know... the information here is scarce... he trailed off as a slip of yellowed paper from between the pages in a cast-aside book caught his eye. He frowned. It was a magazine clipping. Takashi had a guilty, uneasy feeling as he pulled it out, stared at it a moment, and then crumpled it wordlessly in his hand. Apparently one of the ninth division members had taken it upon themselves to provide harried researches with a form of light-hearted amusement during their work, and so had conveniently snuck in a highly questionable photograph for the hapless discoverer to enjoy. His face turned beet-red, and Kohaku nearly fell from her perch on his shoulder from laughing so hard. Would you stop that? he told her sullenly. Takashi gingerly moved to close the formerly “contaminated” book and replace it on the shelf, but as he did so the heading at the top of one of the pages seemed to jump out at him. He read it again and then, with a sudden eagerness, began turning through the pages. What is it? Kohaku asked after he continued to pour over the article in silence. But as Takashi made no conscious effort to respond, she decided to simply tap into the thread of his thoughts and passively absorb the information he was gathering. It was at least the faster way to go about it. The article in question detailed an incident from years long past in which Kishō had evidentially been involved. What Takashi’s attention had been drawn to, however, was not Kishō’s barely mentioned name, but rather the eerily familiar outcome of the assignment itself. The mission had been labelled a complete disaster. Originally, the plan had been to dispatch several small squadrons from the ninth division in order to exterminate a sizeable invasion of Hollows in the south-east Rukongai near the Seireitei. The task should have been easily accomplished, especially with so many Shinigami working in collaboration. But order had decayed after an unexpected group of high-class Gillian had appeared amongst the other Hollows. There was only one survivor, and while investigations were made in the aftermath of the battle it was impossible to determine what, exactly, had occurred as only one, residual trace of Reiatsu could be found. It was a Reiatsu that had stained the entire area, serving to bleach out all other hints of spiritual pressure. That Reiatsu, according to the report, had been matched to none other than Kishō— the sole survivor of the mission. Takashi closed the book slowly, and with a solemn expression of finality replaced it on the shelf. Now what will you do? Kohaku asked. “Hmm,” Takashi replied aloud, and crossed his arms across his chest as he stared into empty space to think. There is one incongruity I noticed in the report, he began. That must be the chronology.” she noted. ''Indeed. It is evident that he had left the ninth for some time after the incident, or at least was relatively inactive in the division’s operations. The catalogue does not record any assignments in which he was involved after that date... And since the date of the mission does not coincide with when he joined the Sixth, that leaves a rather conspicuous gap in the timeline. Kohaku surmised. Takashi nodded. I wonder what he was up to... Could it have been in preparation for the war? she asked. It would have been much too early for that. Takashi began to compile the various documents lying about and stacking them neatly on one of the library’s tables. It’s honestly rather frustrating. The information here is greatly lacking, to put it bluntly.” he commented. Kohaku simply yawned and began to preen her wing feathers. ''I wonder if it’s more a matter of confidentiality than a lack of activity on Hōsōshi’s part. he mused. He is, afterall, a member of a noble house... Why not ask him? Kohaku interrupted. Takashi stalled, his hands tightening around the book he held as his entire body went rigid. Ask him? The idea was inherently disturbing. Mainly because, as hard as he tried he could not find any reason why he should not simply approach Kishō directly. And while Takashi was not known for his curiosity, the whole ordeal had served as a constant thorn in his thoughts, irritating him, distracting him, and begging painfully to be resolved. He wanted to find the answer, and yet... And yet. With knowledge came the burden of responsibility. He was by no means obligated to go through such effort for one division member. But as much as he wished it could have been otherwise, Kishō Hōsōshi had refused to fade into the obscurity of insignificance in his mind. It was a taste of irony, in the end, considering that it seemed as though Kishō was a Shinigami who wanted nothing more than to be forgotten. The truth was, however, that Takashi had been reminded of himself. And, in a way, he was afraid of what he might discover if he were to pry deeper than he already had, as memories of his own bitter past might be brought to the surface. To become close to Kishō meant becoming close to the darkest part of himself. But he could not draw back now: to do so meant to act on cowardice. In other words, it had become a personal matter.